*” the white man cries, “away !”
He points us, nor delays to push ;
"We have no food for you to-day—
Away, black Lubra! to the Bush."
Now they are many-we are few,
Still brightly shines the sun and moon:
The white man wears an altered hue,
His soul and face are dark at noon.
We wander o'er the weary plain,
But rarely meet the fleet emu;
We search for food the woods in vain,
Nor ask who killed the kangaroo.
The white man wanders in the dark,
We hear his thunder smite the bough;
The opossum's mark upon the bark
We traced, but cannot find it now.
The white man tells us where to go,
He tells us where to turn and stand;
Where our own creeks and rivers flow,
In their old freedom, through the land!
His flocks and herds our forests fill ;
A thousand woods we wander through;
And hunger-yet we may not kill
The white man's woolly kangaroo.
O, sorrow! weary little one!
O, helpless, and ill-fated child!
The food, the life, the land is gone-
And we must perish in the wild!
TO THE RIVER YARRA.
CHILD of the hills-the forest child!
Unwearied wanderer of the wild :
Thou, Yarra, art a stream sincere,
As ever soothed the poet's ear:
Although by minstrel yet unsought-
Unsung-unknown in hallowed thought!
O, mirror of fair forms! thou source
Of joy along thy mazy course.
* Gago-go, Lubra-woman.
Not soon shall we forget how first
On us thy primal beauty burst;
With trees of trunk and limb sublime,
As they had grown from oldest time;
Woods over woods, and hills far seen,
With knolls, and slopes, and glens between ;
Where Art had entered not—our way
Taking through endless forests grey:
Where all we met was new and rare,
And all we saw was good and fair!
But, Yarra, thou art lovelier now,
With clouds of bloom on every bough;
A gladsome sight, it is to see,
In blossom, thy mimosa-tree.
Like golden-moonlight doth it seem,
The moonlight of a heavenly dream;
A sunset lustre, chaste and cold;
A pearly splendour blent with gold;
That in its loveliness profound,
The waters have a mellower sound.
When Eve, fresh from the Almighty's hand,
Moved graceful in the orient land,
And gladness, like a river, flowed
On with her through that blest abode ;
Light from her limbs diffused-a fine
Effulgence of the touch divine ;
Pure as an angel, and as fair,
Such blossom might she pluck and wear.
Free-waving wide, ascending high, ·
And to the waters drooping nigh,
There shows of myriad flowers a gleam
Trembling in the glassy stream;
'Midst azure gleams a golden glow,
In the softer heavens below,
Blent with clouds of purest snow.
Oh well may Yarra turn and stay,
Well may she here and thither stray;
Oft turn, and fold herself to sleep,
As loth to join the oozy deep:
Even like a maiden blooming bright,
Who turns on home a lingering sight,
And, for the first time, leaves in tears,
The home of love from earliest years.
In sooth, the whole wide vale is fair,
And spicy rich the odorous air!
Flow on, sweet Yarra! time shall be,
Shall happy votaries crowd to thee;
And smiles of cultured beauty bless
With theirs, thy natural loveliness.
These miams soon will disappear,
Rude sheds which thy dark people rear ;
Domes of a race uncouth, forlorn,
Wide-scattered by the winds of scorn.
Whate'er the good may do or say,
Self-moving to a sure decay,
Possessing nothing to retard
Of slighted arts the sure award,
Thy ancient tribes will pass away.
Others now seek thy flowery bed,
Here social life will bloom instead,
And cottage, hall, and rural farm,
Will rise to cheer thee and to charm,
O, Yarra, worthy highest place!
No more wilt thou reflect a race
Squallid in form, in aspect base;
Fair girls, from England's lovely land,
Bright as thy bloom will by thee stand;
And stooping low, thy waves will kiss,
Lips pure as from the realms of bliss ;
And in return wilt thou disclose
Fair brows, clear-seen in thy repose,
Our England's lily and its rose.
Joy to thee, Yarra-be thou blest!
The weary come to thee for rest.
Far England's care-worn sons and daughters,
Sad ocean-pilgrims seek thy waters.
And some of those who to thee flock,
Are beings of earth's noblest stock;
Heroic, just; who could endure
Great sorrows that they might be pure;
That, in the land they left, resigned
Much-not the heaven-erected mind;
Nor firmest will; nor native dower
Of moral and creative power.
These with them bring their treasures old,
Stores of the soul, if not of gold;
And added unto thee shall make
Thee, Yarra, famous for their sake.
The Tweed is now a wondrous river!
The Ayr flows on in song for ever!
The Cam and Isis have a fame,
With streams of Greek and Roman name;
And Thames, and Trent, and Ouse, shall charm
Wherever song the heart can warm:
And, Yarra, a strong heart hast thou;
For honouring wreaths an ample brow;
And hence in strains that will endure,
Will poets sing thee, Yarra pure!
And hence the manly and the fair
Will pace thy borders loosed from care;
And wine, and song, and lover's tale,
Will overflow with bliss thy vale!
OLD IMPRESSIONS.
NAY-tell me not, the exile said,
You think this land as fair as ours;
That endless spring is round us spread,
That blessings rise on every hand:
O, give to me our country's flowers--
And give to me our native land!
Our churchyard, with its old grey wall;
Our church, with its sweet sabbath-bell;
Our village fields, so green and small,
The primrose in my native dell:
I see, I hear, I feel them all
In memory know and love them well.
The bell-bird, by the river heard;
The whip-bird, which surprised I hear,
In me have powerful memories stirred
Of other scenes and strains more dear;
Of sweeter songs than these afford,
The thrush and blackbird warbling clear.
The robin which I here behold,
Most beautiful with breast of flame!
No cottage enterer, shyly bold,
No household bird in seasons drear,-
Is wild, is silent: not the same
Babe-burying bird of ancient fame :
Where is the strain I wont to hear,
The song of russet leaves and sere?
O, call it by some other name!
I'm tired of woods for ever green:
I pine to see the leaves decay:
To see them, as our own are seen,
Turn crimson, orange, russet, grey:
To see them, as I've seen them oft,
By tempests torn and whirled aloft;
Or, on some bland autumnal day,
A golden season still and soft,
In woodland walk, in garden croft,
Die silently, and drop away.
The fields in which my youth was spent,
The scenes through which I daily went;
Went daily through and did not see,
On inward visions fair intent:
Those scenes for which I had no eyes, Where in the wild thyme hummed the bee, I now have rightly learned to prize; To me in dreams do they arise, With tenderest hues they visit me.
Then tell me not, the exile said,
This land may not compare
Though endless spring be round us spread,
Though blessings rise on every hand;
O, give to me our country's flowers,
And give to me our native land!
But more than all, the exile said,
In this poor country of a day,
Where rise the works of ages fled,
Your halls and ivied castles grey?
Your ancient cities, where are they?
Where live your sculptors', painters' toil,
That consecrate the meanest soil?
Where, whither shall we turn to find
Man's noblest monuments of mind?
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